Abby is babysitting a friends dog this weekend, a friendly Pekingese named Gracie. Sierra seems a little intimidated by her, and Max is so jealous that he spent most of the night under our bed pouting.
Catholics. It’s all that Host she eats. Christ has got to make your breath smell funny.
“Yummy and seeping, she swirled a gracious eye around to the groom. She weaved a bit, then grabbed his powder-blue tuxedo lapels with both of her raptoresque hands and slammed him down onto the alter. ‘You f*cked my pig, you sister!’ she screamed. The congregation fell, stunned like a river of grain that falls from the silo chute. Strangely, every bit of erectile tissue in the chapel was achingly turgid and purple. Women began to ‘glow’ and men drooled in anticipation of a release, a rebirth, a resurrection, and FINALLY – a cessation of hostilities that meant that meant there would never exist a powder-blue tuxedo with a polyester cummerbund. The band was playing. Jesus was ready for his comeback. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen!” -D
A weakly electric fish osmotically draws the brandy into the ladyfingers.
Balony. Is there nothing it can’t do? It can’t pass for Spam.
What’s the deal with French lesbians?
Big veiny flute. Meat flute. Beet flute.
“Yes, I bathe with my parrot.” -X
You can train your rabbit to come just by shaking the treat box.
PooLife. Boning my chicken. Boring my chicken. Boning my pumpkin. Bullfight of the argonauts.
This page left intentionally damp.
Big tater night!
“Go make the thing barf!” -T, re: VCR
27% of Americans still believe the sun revolves around the earth.
53% of Americans don’t know it takes a year for the earth to revolve around the sun.
“The hurricane is nature’s weapon of mass destruction.” -TV Show
“The tornado is truly the Los Angeles class hunter-killer submarine of the air.” -D
“Tornadoes are the psychopaths of nature.” -Other TV show
Unapprised of the situation, Frozen Hippie Man simply walked up to Janine and blew fetid pot smoke in her face.
Look at the future! (Actual future may vary slightly in size and color.)
“I’m not in the mood for a cutie. I want another phallus.” -?
“LICK! —> Wriggle the thinly skinned uni-muscle into the tightly rimmed hole. Now prey! You will find that your own cries of delight are muffled by the ever-tightening annulus of pro-tidal delight.” -D
Remember, Richard, Shakespeare said, “Brevity is the soul of wit.” So here we go.
- January: An ice storm gripped Oklahoma.
- March: Abby’s daughter Chele married Tom Reeves in a traditional Catholic ceremony in Reisterstown, Maryland.
- May: One of our closest friends, Ann Kelley, is diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. She would later learn that it is inoperable.
- May: My sister Nicole’s dog Griffin died.
- June: We bought Abby a Jeep Grand Cherokee.
- June: After a short battle with vascular disease, my mother, Sarah Jo Barron, died in hospice care in Palm Coast, Florida. She had just turned 74.
- August: Our friends Wil and Marline Fry moved to Killeen, Texas.
- September: I was able to buy a Nissan Rogue crossover SUV.
- October: Abby and I took the dogs to Moab, Utah, for our annual anniversary vacation, where we met several friends and had a terrific time.
- November: I returned to the high desert of New Mexico for a hiking tour of Chaco Canyon and the surrounding area.
- November: Chele and Tom came to Oklahoma for the Thanksgiving holiday.
- December: A blizzard struck Oklahoma on Christmas Eve, stranding motorists across the state. We were lucky in that we got home from Abby’s home town before the worst of it struck.
Another pithy year-end roundup. (Patting myself on the back.)
We got off easy here in Ada. It’s cold and there is some drifted snow, but it’s manageable. I got out and photographed it a bit, which was fun. Overall, though, I imagine we’ll just stay in and rusticate.
As I write this in the twilight of Christmas Eve, we bask in the glow of a successful holiday. Abby, tired from our dramatic drive home and opening presents, has gone to bed with Sierra the Chihuahua at her side. I am at my computer, and of course Max is chewing up a hot dog. A hot dog? We gave the dogs each a stuffed toy, a hot dog and a hamburger. For some reason, Max took to the hot dog and chewed on it for an hour or more. As he did so, the squeaker inside squeaked nonstop.
When we originally got him from the animal shelter four years ago, Max was one day from being euthanized. He was shy and clingy and didn’t even know how to play. Since then, though, he has become a fantastic and beloved pet. Merry Christmas Max the Chihuahua.
We spent yesterday in Abby’s hometown of Ryan, Oklahoma, where we had fun with her family. Forecasts indicated the winter storm would stay north of us and our route home. But as we went to bed last night in Ryan, I got a blizzard alert text message on my phone. When we got up, snow was falling hard and blowing, so we skipped lunch and headed home. There were many vehicles on our route that had slid off the road and were stranded, including one semi that had jackknifed and blocked the road, which delayed us about 15 minutes while a wrecker towed it back onto the road. In the middle part of the drive, it thinned out to just rain, but then back home, it was snow and sleet again, blowing at gusts up to 40mph. The drive normally takes two hours, but this time we made it in about four and a half.
The rest of the evening was great despite the stressful drive home. We had late lunch with Dorothy and her family on the other end of the pasture. We had Christmas, in accordance with Abby’s tradition of opening presents on Christmas eve. And now we are hunkered down.
Abby has been talking about wanting a small automatic of her own for some time now. She’s had a .38 Special for a long time, but ammunition is scarce and expensive, so she doesn’t shoot it much. She doesn’t love the grips on it, and it kicks quite a bit, so she wanted something new and more to her liking.
When we were shopping, we first looked at the Ruger LCP (Lightweight Compact Pistol), which is a 380, and is a very popular sidearm for those with permits to carry concealed weapons. (Abby has a concealed carry permit, but it has expired.)
We discovered, however, that apparently there isn’t much ammo at all available right now with the exception of .22LR. (My Ruger pistol is a .22LR, by the way.) The gun shop had three versions of the popular Walther P22, which felt great in her hands. She picked the brushed-metal-surfaced one. The shop had a pink one which was so not Abby’s style. It’s her early Christmas present. Tonight we went out to the pond and shot it a bit, and she loves it even more.
Abby and I went to dinner last night. It’s always nice when we can do that. Yesterday she also decorated the front window of our house. Since she loves green so much, and it’s one of the dominant Christmas colors, she used a lot of green. We both think it looks beautiful.
A neat little sidebar to this: I took the photo of these decorations with the Kodak that was my dad’s one and only digital camera. He got it at a garage sale, and I remember how proud he was that he got it for $50.
I have lots of friends I know online. Some of them, like Kev or the Gardners, I have actually met. Others have been to many of the same places as I have. Still others, like Scott, Karen, and Steph, were friends long ago, and we have reconnected online.
And then there is the special case of Amber. I got to know Amber online when I was searching Steph’s blogroll. Almost immediately I felt like genuinely liked Amber – her openness, her sense of humor, her energy, her engaging smile – and I have been reading her blog for some while. Recently, though, Amber has been struggling with some very deep issues in her life, and as a result, much to my chagrin, she stopped blogging.
She remained active on FaceBook, however, and with the aid of a few instant messages, she and I have had a couple of really breakthrough phone conversations. I was right about her: I really do like her.
Amber would love to come to visit us and our various tiny animals, and I know Abby would like her as much as I do. She’s invited, and she knows that. Even if we never meet, though, I think Amber is my friend, and I am hers.
Dream: our friend Anne and I are walking through her neighborhood on a summer evening. A tractor-trailer rig approaches from behind and starts to negotiate a tight corner at the end of her block, right in front of her house. In the process, Anne and I are forced off the road and are almost crushed. At some point in the maneuver, the rig needs to back up, and does so into Anne’s bedroom, where it barely fits. I enter to help navigate, but in doing so I end up almost being crushed. One of the drivers of the rig then informs me that they can’t get the vehicle out, so they want to cut a truck-shaped hole in the back wall so they can back it further. I suggest they get a smaller tractor (the front part of the rig with the engine), at which point I am in my own living room, where Abby informs me that the rig is Canadian, because they are ten percent larger there.
Key sources for this dream: the recent death of a young spelunker in Nutty Putty Cave in Utah, and the handy man who came to the house last night to look into cutting a new window in my bathroom.
A everyone who reads my lexicon of bloggery knows, Abby and I spend a lot of our recreational time hiking and exploring in the desert southwest, which is home to some very interesting archaeology. The most compelling and intriguing is that of the Chaco Culture National Historical Park in Chaco Canyon, in the lonely high desert of northwest New Mexico.
Every time I go to Chaco, rangers and explorers talk about what the Ancestral Puebloans did here, and why they left. It remains an enduring mystery, possibly because they aren’t looking at it from a practical enough standpoint. At Chaco, there are few burial grounds, and few weapons of any kind found. This indicates that few people actually made Chaco their home. Analysis of excavations, aerial photographs, and other evidence shows a large number of kivas, giant stone pits that are all similar (in the case of the Puebloans, round; the Mogollon to the south built square kivas), as well as a great number of unventilated small rooms with no windows.
Rangers, scientists and printed literature continually refer to these structures as centers of religious ceremonies. But think about human nature. All you need to do to figure out the purpose of these places is look at other cultures throughout history and in modern times, and ask yourself, “What is the largest, most important building in our town?” Is it the church, city hall, or the library? Not by a long shot. It is the mall, Target, Macy’s, Safeway, Kohl’s.
Chaco wasn’t a great church of the ancient people of the southwest. It was their Wal Mart. Why did they leave? They went out of business.
“I don’t know where it is, but there’s a lot of juice in there.” -D, about T
I don’t mean to be nosey, but I was going through your things and…
“Suck until there’s nothing left but a clear, dried-out husk.” -D
“Does my head stink?” -T “Yes, but not a human stink.” -R
It could be worse. You could have to use your tongue as toilet paper.
-Lope the Mule
-Smooch the Donkey
-“Don’t eat dog.”
-Git ‘n’ Scram
“You know, Tulsan’s sh!t doesn’t stink.” -W
“Mmmm. Fuzzy pink spot smell like tuna.” -Porn, c. 1980
“I just finished reading Naked Lunch and the jissom is still dripping off of the end of my fork.” -D
“It’s harder to control your cherry-to-crust ratio if it’s not a piece.” -R
Afraid? Most people fear being eaten alive more than anything else,
yet are more likely to die of injuries that occur while being abducted by aliens
from planet ten.
“I keep it in a jar under my bed next to my penis.” -H
“When I eat this cookie, I can’t hear a word anyone is saying.” -?
T is the Stealth Bomber of the fart world.
“No, nobody could mistake R for being uptight, not with that big plopping
dump of a personality he has.” -D
Tofutti Cutie, dangerous booty.
Wine on Zima, butthole reema.
Fritter under the towel, no problem with bowel.
Brocoli on ‘tater, lots of poop later.
Wine on gin, sex with your kin.
Zima on rum, ferrett up the bum.
“Space takes up a lot of room. I’ve found that if you let most of the space out of a piano, you can fit it in your trunk.” -R
“The record is 9 turkey feathers in his ureter.” -T
“I touched one. Don’t lick my finger.” -D
Football lit by smudgepots. Long crazy shadows – demonic abscense of eyes caused by over-arching helmet brow.
Field hockey is very cool lit by Tiki torches.
weary of killing
the slickened axe slips from my grasp
clunk-glunk on the ground
OLD HICKRY did her job well
never even sharpened her
weight head propelled
now, I withdraw from the edge
I shot this at East Central University’s surplus auction recently. I could make several clever puns about it, but instead I will just say that I think toilets in a parking lot are inherently funny.
I just canceled my “MySpace” account.
I’ve never liked MySpace much, but the MySpace pages I really hate are, not surprisingly, the busiest, tackiest, least mature ones. I’d say that two thirds of the Myspace pages out there fall into that category: dozens or hundreds of cell-phone hold-away party pics of you and your all-look-alike teenage BFFs; barely-understandable pixelated video of giggling people laughing at things that aren’t really funny; profile text that reveals an abysmal absence of fundamental grammar skills like punctuation and capitalization; angry rants that go nowhere or go everywhere and only tell of the childishness of the author; bloated third-party add-on html decorations for your homepage that hopelessly obscure the text and take five minutes to load; et cetera.
I’ve had a Myspace page for several years despite all this. It was a decidedly third-tier priority in my web surfing lexicon. MySpace was my only point of contact with certain people, but if they want to find me, they have just as much Google as I do.
I worked today, and Abby met a friend for a movie. I got home first, and when she got home, wow! She looked amazing. She looked so great, in fact, that I told her, truthfully, that she looked like someone I would have designed to be the perfect woman for me. I don’t have powerful enough adjectives to describe how beautiful she looked and felt to me: soft, warm, bright, loving, adorable, sexy, inviting. I wrapped my arms around her and just held her close for a few minutes, which we both love. She smelled so good. Then I had the idea that I wanted to photograph her. The images we made are amazing.
How in the world did I manage to get this incredible woman to love me?
Something tightens inside me when people are discussing issues and pull out the phrase, “I was taught that…”
When you say that, you are admitting to being either a robot, a tape recorder, or a zombie. Claiming that something is right because someone else told you it was right is the way Stalin and Hitler and Pol Pot bred their nations of destruction.
Please think about saying this instead: “After reading and researching, I’ve decided that…”
Too much work? Okay, my bad. You just keep on believing what someone told you to believe.
-I’m Not Like Mommy/Daddy
-Hide the Salami
-No One Loves Me
-Me Want It!
-I’m Not Asleep!
-Got Your Soul!
-No Dead Eye
-Death Hath No Sway Over Me
-Where’s the Mirror?
-God Said So
-In Conclusion, Lick Me.
As everyone knows, newspapers are in decline. Fewer people than ever are buying the paper. In some markets, certain newspapers have closed their doors, while others have lightened their loads by trimming staff or changing from home delivery to mail. It is widely held that the reason for this is the widespread availability of news on the internet.
Buyer beware: the news you get from the internet is not necessarily the same as the news you get from a “real” news product. By that I mean, for example, who would you trust to cover a city council meeting; a local news reporter, or some dude with a Twitter account and an iPhone? And don’t even get me started about television “news” coverage.
Newspapers are known as the Fourth Estate for a reason: it is their purpose to be the watch dog and the guard dog of truth. Since they are disappearing, you might soon be on your own.
If you are young and have a band, I have news for you: we do not want to hear you giggle or make fart noises, or arrange samples of giggling and fart noises into a song. You are not a rebel or a genius; you are a four-year-old in the body of a 21-year-old.
You should also be aware that if you had a really cool name for your band, but other members of your band had names they thought were cooler, the compromise name you settled on is lame.